


⊙---training---▬

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Gen, Gun Violence, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, Much death, Panic Attacks, Suicide, Torture, death death death death death, no happy ending in sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24832957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm is forced to go to firearms training as a condition of keeping his consultancy with the NYPD. He doesn't want to fire a weapon, but he can check the instructor's box and be on his way. ...can't he?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	⊙---training---▬

"It's firearms training so you'll actually use your weapon when it's needed to protect yourself," the instructor explains.

Vision fuzzed with next steps he isn't ready to take, Malcolm keeps arguing, "I don't need protecting. I've saved innocent — "

"You've been injured in the line of duty a dozen times this year," they read from a fact sheet he can't see. Where'd they get it — Internal Affairs? Another department Gil's at odds with every other week? Who is this know-it-all instructor? Don't they realize firing a weapon means more injuries, not less, when considering all parties involved? "This simulation will teach you to instinctively fire when justified."

He's heard that bullshit before, put on enough of a show at the FBI to pass muster, but avoided ever firing in the line of duty, preferring to use his mind to de-escalate a tricky situation. It didn't always work, but — "It's never justified — "

"100% success rate, Mr. Bright. Or your consultation with the NYPD is over."

So it's going to be that kind of day. Check the pompous instructor's box and he'll be on his way. Let all the training fly out the window as soon as he escapes.

The headset around his face itches, the earbuds uncomfortable under earmuffs as they try to eat into his brain and invent a new kind of bionic device. "For safety," the instructor reminds. Required gear to be allowed anywhere near the training room.

For messing with his head. Already irked that he's being forced into mandated training, now it comes with gadgets invading his personal space. He has to focus on the cold training pistol in his hands to ground himself and stave off panic. He wants his suit jacket back.

"First is clearing a corner. We've preset it to be at a warehouse, but if you want to change the settings, it could be the woods, an alley, a basement if you like."

Sweat creeps onto the back of his neck, and his hand reaches up to swipe it.

"Leave the headset alone, Mr. Bright," the instructor demands.

"I'm not — "

"Pick a setting, and let's go. I don't get paid overtime like you."

He doesn't get paid overtime either. Gil had forced him through rounds and rounds of negotiation to get him to accept a high enough consulting rate that Gil thought was fair. "Can't give your talent away, kid," he'd said. Born rich, he could, but Gil wouldn't hear of it.

"Warehouse it is — let's go, Mr. Bright."

Just like FBI training. Just like FBI training. Step — step — no one. Step — unarmed. Step — an armed suspect shoots and hits him in the chest, his whole vest vibrating with the impact. He looks down, blood gushing out for extra effect, all of his vision turning red.

"You're dead, Mr. Bright," the instructor tsks.

"I didn't see — "

"He sure saw you. One shot center mass and you bled out before you could say ‘Gil.’”

How dare they mock his relationship with the man who was more a father than... He cuts off the train of thought before it can end in yelling and even more disciplinary action. Stilling, he shifts the pistol in his hands to wipe off his clammy palms.

"Try it again."

It's four times before he moves stealthily enough to avoid being hit. Fired upon through the doorway, his index finger returns fire with a heavy press, the resulting pop in his ears shocking him into stillness.

Panic. Waves shoot from his finger to his wrist, reverberate up his entire arm to engulf his chest, nearly swallow his head.

 _Whoosh_ , a deep breath constructs a retaining wall before he drowns. It's a temporary defense, yet enough so he doesn't collapse in front of the instructor.

 _Pop_ , buzzing takes over the back of his vest, and it's an epic battle of resilience not to crumble and cry.

"You're terrible at this. How did you ever make it in the FBI?"

Hands shaking, he holsters his pistol and rubs his palms across his thighs several times. Frontal, parietal, temporal, occipital... each part of the brain that comes to him backs his own away from breaking down. A diagram painted in his memory for when the world's inputs become too much and he needs to refocus.

It's Gil talking. He's teaching him to shoot soda cans in the back of a range upstate, away from all of the other members. They call him Arroyo's kid when they see him, even smile and genuinely look happy with his presence, but he's still a recovering teenager that doesn't really know what to do with the attention. "Smile and nod," his mother reminds him. "You can share how you really feel," Jackie coaxes.

Gil tells him he's a great shot — a great shot. He can do this. He can —

Drawing his pistol, he's in the warehouse again, pieing the space. The assailants are never in the same place, sands shifting like the hourglass that ticks down on his consultancy with the NYPD. He crouches for cover, clears two doorways without finding anything.

A muffled struggle comes from behind him, and he spins to two assailants charging, guns blazing. _Pop_. _Pop_...... _Pop_.

The assailants fall, yet he does too, the bottom of his vest rumbling over his gut.

"It's a good thing there's a surgeon in your family. How many is that now? You're a month's worth of gunshot victims into the ER."

He keeps _depending upon the hospital_ to himself, not wanting to provide any more ammunition to draw from.

"Clean scenario — 100% success — or you're done. You get to choose whether you go home employed."

One time at the range, he'd shot an entire row of cans in one go when he was pissed, and Gil said they had to leave. Took him to a diner in town, but they ate their food in the car, Gil trading the sanctity of the Le Mans for giving them a place to talk quietly, creating a space he could break down without an audience. Taught him handling a weapon came with respect, and he couldn't offer enough angry.

Sweep the whole warehouse, on his own, and he could get this whole fucking electronic torture device off of him and go decompress. He's sweat enough to drench his shirt where the vest presses against him. Needs a bath and a long talk with Gil if he has any hopes of being stable enough to go into the precinct tomorrow.

He can do this. He can keep his job.

Entering the warehouse, he clears the doorways and finds his way down a long hallway to the back. Bangs on a door he can't open, his fist rapping in the air, and waits to the side against the wall to see what happens. A man emerges, firing a spray of bullets from an automatic rifle.

It only takes one shot to the head, and the assailant goes down. He readies to look for another, but everything turns green, a 100%: success message appearing in white text as if he can now surrender. His hand stings, and he rubs his thumb against his index finger to soothe the hurt between them.

He holsters the pistol and reaches up to his face, pulling the headset, earmuffs, and earbuds off in one swoop, hands ripping at the vest next to tear everything over his head. It all lands in a haphazard pile on the floor, abandoned for good. Damn the rules.

Finally free, he runs his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face and looks for the instructor to get his completion certificate.

"Edrisa?" he asks, her white lab coat appearing in front of him.

He spins. "D-dani. JT."

Continuing past, the next sight has his voice catching, "No, Gil." His navy sweater is drenched to nearly black like molasses. Tracing up, there's merely crimson in place of his warm smile — the last glimpse drops him to his knees in a thud.

There's blood on his quaking hand, runny and drying. Pinched? Glock bite?

"Success," the instructor says, their voice now emanating from the room's speakers instead of his earbuds. "You locked me in a box, left me for dead — thought I'd return the favor, Little Malcolm."

The mask drops on the instructor's final words, Watkins' unmistakable voice shattering any last hope that one of them survived the simulation.

He rocks over his knees, a wailing sob shaking the room with the realization of what he's done. Four shots, four kills. All his friends. In a bid to keep his consultancy that’s nothing without them.

Whipping the pistol out of its holster, his hand is steady. He takes the first shot he makes without hesitation the whole day. Into his head.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> it's technically an idea sparked by someone's prompt, but as it fills nearly 0 requirements of that prompt and has so many tags it's unreadable, i gift it to them in spirit <3


End file.
